


Vertigo

by sori



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-22
Updated: 2008-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-18 00:23:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sori/pseuds/sori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon had his arms wrapped around a girl, her feet standing on his lime green sneakers. They were dancing grandly around the waiting room to the thrumming beat of an old Fall Out Boy tune.  (Where Brendon's a pediatrician and Spencer is a journalist.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vertigo

Ryan walked out of the door near the back of the room, his scarf fluttering over the shoulder of his green nurse's scrubs. "Go, go, go," he said frantically, gesturing toward the door. "We need to escape before they attack."

Spencer was too busy watching the man in the white lab coat singing A Whole New World in a shockingly good voice to fully grasp the urgency in Ryan's voice. "Yeah," he said, still distracted by the show in the middle of the waiting room.

There were two little girls sitting in front of the man, giggling happily and staring in rapt fascination as he dropped down onto one knee for the rousing last line. The soles of his white tennis shoes were blinking merrily in tune with his song.

Ryan poked him hard in ribs with his elbow and whispered harshly, "Spencer! Now!"

"Right, yeah. Attack?" Spencer asked finally, still kind of mesmerized by the singing doctor with the light-up sneakers. He hadn't realized they made those in adult sizes. "Who's going to attack?"

"The devil children," Ryan explained almost patiently. "Evil spawn. I'm so not lying."

When Ryan had called him at work and asked for a ride home, Spencer had thought it'd be an uneventful trip. Interesting, sure, because Ryan had spent the last six months telling him about the slightly quirky pediatrician he was now working for, but still - nothing to write home about.

"Umm...what's-?" Spencer asked, gesturing around the room, still almost speechless. Posters of rock bands and crazy, abstract modern art pictures lined the walls of the room; there were bits and pieces of beat-up white walls showing through, but mostly it was a swirling, twirling, headache inducing burst of colors and textures.

The man bowed deeply to girls and pulled out a couple of suckers from behind one of their ears. He presented them grandly, with a huge sweeping arm motion.

This was possibly all new levels of quirky in Spencer's mind.

"That's Dr. Urie," Ryan said, as if that was actually an explanation for everything.

"Okay?" Spencer looked back into the center of the room where Dr. Urie had a little girl wrapped around his waist, hugging him tightly.

"Yeah, just don't ask. You don't want to know. Trust me," Ryan said, shrugging his shoulders and waving his hand toward Dr. Urie.

Dr. Urie glanced up and smiled. He patted the mother on the arm, before giving the girls a small wave goodbye.

"You must be Spencer Smith!" Dr. Urie practically bounded over to them; Spencer could sort of see him vibrating as he stood in place.

"Dr. Urie." Spencer held out his hand politely. "Were you just singing...Aladdin?" He asked hesitantly.

Dr. Urie shrugged his shoulders and grinned wider before reaching over and grabbing Spencer's hand, shaking it with big, wide motions. "Yeah," he said beaming. "And you've totally got to call me Brendon. Ryan talks about you all the time." Dr. Urie - Brendon - was still holding onto his hand, their fingers wrapped together, and staring into Spencer's face like there was something there that only he could find. Like he was looking under a microscope maybe.

Or maybe looking at a disease, Spencer realized.

"I'm not a disease," he said, and then winced when even Ryan made a half-choked sound.

"Absolutely not," Brendon agreed without missing a beat. "You look nothing like a disease. In fact, you look exactly like a reporter."

"Right." Spencer wondered for a moment if he'd wandered into a rabbit hole; a huge, scary, weird rabbit hole that involved Aladdin songs and, from what he'd heard, doctors that actually seemed to encourage their nurses to come to work with neckerchiefs and occasionally, birds drawn on their cheeks.

"Dr. Urie, Misti's mom is one the phone and wants to talk to you about grape juice and anti-oxidants," someone said from behind the counter.

Spencer looked over and wasn't surprised to see a really skinny giant with long hair, a v-neck stripe shirt, and over-sized sunglasses pushed up on his head. He was leaning out the window, the phone cord bobbing behind him.

"Thanks, William. Give me one minute," Brendon called over.

"Misti's mom?" William asked into the phone. "Are you still there? Dr. Urie will be right with you. Personally, though, I don't think a girl can get enough anti-oxidant's. Seriously. Do you remember that grape juice commercial? Like ten years ago? Right, right...." He sat back down behind the counter, waving happily toward them and laughing into the phone.

Seriously. Weird fucking rabbit hole.

"So, I've got to go talk anti-oxidants. I'll see you sometime, yeah?" Brendon asked, staring at Spencer. Spencer noticed that Brendon was still shaking his hand. Or maybe he was just holding it by this point in time.

"Yeah, sometime," Spencer said, shaking off Brendon's hand and grabbing the sleeve of Ryan's shirt, tugging him toward the door almost frantically. He smiled at the girls in the corner when they glared at him.

Ryan rolled his eyes and stopped, squatting down and waving at the girls until they came running over. "Hey, guys, take it easy," Ryan said.

They flung themselves at Ryan wrapping him up in a hug. Ryan stayed perfectly still, arms loose at his sides, until they pulled back and grinned.

"You're not going to give us another shot next time, are you?" One girl asked and Spencer snorted at the look on Ryan's face.

"Five of them. Five each," he said pointedly, but the girls just shook there heads and poked him in the cheek.

"I liked it when you had the pictures. I think you should try a rainbow next time. I like rainbows," one of them said before they both turned and walked back over to their mother.

"Rainbows are lame," Spencer heard the other one say. "He should totally try unicorns. Or maybe a ninja."

Spencer ran for the door, pulling Ryan behind him.

"What the fuck?" He slumped against the wall right outside the door. "Seriously, Ryan. What the fuck?"

"It's a job, fucker. It's a good job with a boss that's really about the least boss like person on the face of the Earth."

"You get paid almost nothing."

"Oh, yeah, because this place is a fucking palace so obviously I'd have a huge income." Ryan stomped off toward the car. "Besides, I'm getting a loan repayment because I'm working in an under-served area." Spencer could totally hear the so there hovering not so innocently in the air. "I'm saving the people. You remember that feeling don't you?"

Spencer couldn't really remember, no, but he sort of figured that was probably the point. But it was a more obvious one than Ryan usually made.

He rubbed his eyes and slid into the front seat of the car. Ryan was toeing off his cowboy boots and already wiggling his bare toes with groans of pleasure. "Suffering for fashion again?" Spencer asked, because, cowboy boots. A nurse in cowboy boots. Mocking was a given.

"Shut. Up."

"Saddle up, cowboy," Spencer said and started up the car. He watched the woman and the kids leave the doctor's office in his rear view mirror, making their way slowly toward a beat-up station wagon that had to be at least 30 years old. They climbed in and Spencer waited until he saw the smoke billowing out from their muffler before pulling out of the parking lot.

His week didn't get much better when Gerard sent him to interview Maria Hernandez at the community hospital. Her six-year son was in critical condition, stuck in the pediatric ICU on a ventilator and fighting for life. She sobbed against Spencer's shoulder in broken English about all the doctors visits, different free clinics and a handful of doctor's offices that had all told her one thing: he was fine, stop worrying, it was just a cold, and since she didn't have any insurance, that'll be $80, please.

Two weeks and ten visits later, Esteban had passed out between a doctor's office and the bus stop.

He couldn't breathe, his body was wracked with infection and the doctors at the hospital weren't sure if he'd live through the double pneumonia. Spencer wasn't a doctor, but he was pretty sure that any of the clinics or doctors should have recognized the problem and put him in the hospital.

Or at least given him something besides Children's Advil and cough medicine.

The anger was already pooling deep in his stomach, waiting uselessly from behind the closed doors outside the ICU. Maria was still clinging to him, her tears soaking the fabric of his shirt. There was nothing he could do to change the situation, to keep all those other clinics from making this kind of mistake again.

But then again -

It didn't take him long on his computer at home to find out how big of a problem existed. The pages of information he pulled up on his screen told him one basic thing: people were getting sick, and dying, because of the lack of quality care in the financially poor areas. But the Mayor was bragging about the best under privileged care program in the country and the city budget was throwing ten percent of it's social budget to subsidize the salaries of physicians working in the under-served areas and still, it wasn't working.

Unfortunately, the physicians either didn't care or were sub-standard to begin with. They were a token gesture.

There was at least a dozen articles written about this exact situation in the last year alone. They all said the same thing, in the same way; all hard facts and incontrovertible evidence that proved the system was horribly flawed. Yet buried inside all of this was his editor's favorite kind of story: all about saving the world, righting the wrongs and changing the fate of the masses.

It was doubtful that a story could actually save the system, but maybe it could at least get people like Maria noticed. Maybe it'd be one more thing her pro bono lawyers could use in court.

But an inconsolable, grieving mother wasn't enough. Statistics showing the level of misdiagnosed diseases in the under-served areas weren't enough. He needed something real and personable, something that couldn't be grazed over with the city's own take on the emotionless facts.

Spencer felt like he was going to throw up. Fuck.

Spencer ran his fingers through his hair and leaned back, his computer chair teetering on the back two legs. There was no better way of proving the flaws in the system than by getting inside the system itself, worming his way in silently until he was close enough that he could reach out and touch the flaws.

Undercover, sort of. So that no one knew they needed to cover things up.

Christ. Ryan's was going to fucking kick his ass when he found out.

He picked up his phone.

When Gerard answered, Spencer said, "I have a story."

**

The next day, he called Ryan's office from his cell and said, "Hey, I'm in the parking lot with sandwiches for all of you. You guys want to eat?"

Although, he didn't actually get to talk to Ryan right away, first he had to talk to William, who was apparently a girl and had to tell Brendon that Ryan's friend, Spencer, was on the phone, and then he got to listen to Brendon play a rousing game of "did to; did not" in the background with what sounded like a little boy, and only then did he get to talk to Ryan who mostly just said, unemotionally:

"Who the fuck are you and why do you have Spencer's phone?"

"Oh, shut up," Spencer said, getting out of the car and slamming the door. He hung up his phone as walked in the front door of the office.

Ryan was kneeling by the waiting room couch, a teenage girl sitting in front of him, flapping her hands around, and saying something about liquid eyeliner and drawing straight lines. Spencer had never seen Ryan nod his head quite so earnestly before. No other kids appeared to be lurking around, but it was sort of hard to tell with all the stuffed animals and blinding posters.

"Spencer Smith, you really brought us food?" Brendon said, watching him from behind the reception counter, hand on William's shoulder. A wide grin sat stupidly on his face.

Spencer nodded, looking around carefully before edging toward them.

Brendon leaned across the counter and whispered, not so quietly, "Ryan says the kids are evil devil spawn but they're actually not. They hardly ever attack without warning."

"Good to know? I guess?" Actually, Spencer wasn't too sure about that. He chanced leaning against the counter and handing the clear plastic Subway bag across the counter.

"Sandwiches!" William said, and Brendon tugged on a lock of his hair.

"Spencer, I think I like you best," Brendon not-quite-whispered, completely ignoring William opening the bag and digging inside. "The best, seriously. Come on back to our lair of deviousness."

Spencer choked down his laughter, oddly charmed, and followed Brendon down the hallway to a back room with a desk, a couple of beat-up old chairs, and about ten filing cabinets. Ryan walked in a minute later.

"The food?" He demanded, flopping down in one of the chairs.

Spencer shrugged his shoulders. William strolled by and tossed a sandwich to each of them. "You get what you get and you don't through a fit," he sang as he wandered on farther down the hall. "You've got fifteen minutes, Dr. Urie."

Brendon groaned and booted up the computer sitting on the corner of his desk. The labored sound of the computer's fan hummed through the room, but Brendon was already taking a huge bite of his sandwich, not paying attention to Ryan and Spencer sitting in the corner of the office.

Ryan was busy telling some story. Spencer wasn't sure if the story was directed at him or Brendon, but it didn't seem like it mattered much to him either way.

"Do we have to see kids? Everyday, all day, kids, and kids, and more fucking kids. With snotty noses and weird rashes," Ryan spit out the last word. "Rashes. That are probably contagious."

Brendon choked on a bite of sandwich, coughing and gasping for breath. "We're a pediatric office, Ryan. Kids are kind of our big cash cow, you know?"

Spencer glared across the room at the Brendon, letting his eyes wander over to the filing cabinets in the corner and to the huge stack of papers teetering along the wall.

"Oh, right. Cash cow." Ryan said, and threw a wadded up napkin at Brendon across the table.

"It'll make us richer than in our wildest dreams, Ryan. For real. We'll be, like, the rock stars of the pediatric world." Brendon stood up, smiling. He let his hand brush across Spencer's shoulder as he walked out the door and down the hall.

"William!" Spencer could hear him calling. "Bring me more children!"

Spencer wondered if it was possible for anyone to have an unironic tone of voice. He didn't think so but.

It was a close thing.

"Ryan!" Brendon yelled from the hallway. "Ryan! More children for you! Come on!"

Ryan sighed and looked longingly at his half-eaten sandwich. "Yay. Evil spawn." He got up and handed his food to Spencer. "Pick me after work, yeah? My car's still in the shop."

He didn't wait for Spencer's answer. Spencer sighed and didn't bother asking how he'd even gotten to work.

This was possibly going to be harder than he had originally thought.

Fortunately, everyone in the office, Ryan included and Brendon especially, seemed to be sort of sluts for lunch. Brendon usually didn't get to sit down long enough to eat; he'd grab whatever Spencer brought and fire up the ancient old computer in the hallway that was networked with the computer at the main counter. He'd shovel in bites between key taps. Spencer was pretty sure he never even noticed what he was eating.

That actually turned out to be sort of problematic.

"My bad, my bad! Fuck, no worries," Brendon yelled, frantically trying to mop up the hot and sour soup Spencer had picked up for lunch. He was desperately pushing buttons on a now soup-logged thermometer and grabbing more towels and a stack of cotton balls, and strangely, q-tips.

"I think it's probably dead," Spencer said helpfully, standing next to Brendon, and looking over his shoulder at the mess. Brendon was wiping the spaces between the buttons with a q-tip, a towel soaking up the liquid from underneath. Brendon gave him a look of such abject misery that Spender hastily added, "Maybe?"

Ryan appeared and elbowed him in the side - hard, that fucker - and whispered furiously in Spencer's ear, "We can't afford to replace that," like Spencer was just that dumb for thinking that a doctor could afford to replace an $80 piece of equipment.

He felt bad, but he filed the knowledge away in his notes under lack of necessary equipment.

The next day, Spencer showed up with burritos. William almost went into a Mexican-food induced high and Brendon couldn't stop grinning and petting Spencer's hair like he was some sort of genius for knowing where to get awesome carne asada burritos. He even sat down long enough to eat.

"Brendon Urie, you are such a cheater. A huge, huge cheater and what the hell were you thinking when-?" Spencer groaned as he heard an unfamiliar voice yelling from somewhere down the hall. Every day was like an all new adventure.

Brendon looked up, eyes wide and panicked. He bolted across the room and ducked down behind Spencer's chair. "Protect me, Spence," he said, as a man in a white coat barreled into the room.

"Umm...hi?" Spencer said, looking out in the hall for Ryan. Or William.

"You're Spencer," the man said at last, and his whole face changed as he broke into a huge grin. "I'm Jon Walker."

Spencer wasn't sure he ever seen anyone grin quite that big before. "Jon Walker," Spencer said. "Wait, you're the...." Spencer knew that name; it was on the sign hanging in the small parking lot. Although, the sign read J W lk r, DDS. More than likely, the a and the e were resting happily in some teenager's trash can.

"The dentist from next door. Yep." Jon tossed something at him and Spencer caught it neatly. A red sucker. "And I see you hiding behind him, Brendon. Seriously, you're putting my name on candy now?"

"It's sugar free candy," Brendon said helpfully, standing up straight, but staying behind Spencer's chair. He settled his hands onto Spencer's shoulders, his fingers digging into the muscles and brushing softly against the hair hanging down onto his neck. Spencer shivered. "Think of it as free advertising!"

"Candy!" Jon argued, leaning against the door frame.

Turning the sucker over in his hands, Spencer finally saw the small white sticky tag stuck on the plastic wrap of the candy. Courtesy of Jonathon Jacob Walker, DDS. Hope to see you soon!, it said.

Spencer choked on his laughter. "Brendon!"

"See!" Jon pointed his finger at Brendon victoriously. "Spencer agrees with me."

"Jon Walker, don't you dare start with me. I had to sing six Disney songs yesterday. Six!"

Jon stuck his hands in his coat pockets and settled more comfortably against the door frame. Spencer was pretty sure he was getting ready to start whistling innocently any moment. Brendon just snorted and swung around, sitting on the arm of Spencer's chair.

"Spence, tell him. Tell him how tragic that is!"

"Yeah, I think I'm going to stay out of this one." Spencer buried his face against the side of Brendon's white coat. He had no idea where this was going on, but between candy and Disney songs in the waiting room, he was pretty sure it was going to be fucking hilarious.

"Disney for ten straight hours! The AMA is going to come after me for...for...." Brendon was winding his fingers absently through Spencer's hair, tugging a little on the ends as he searched for the words.

"For singing bad Disney songs?" Spencer asked helpfully, pulling his head away a little.

"Yes, that's it exactly! See, Spencer understands! He knows these things. He's a journalist."

Brendon sounded so stupidly proud of the fact that Spencer was a journalist. He quickly stood up and pushed Brendon gently away, a headache was lurking right behind Spencer's eyes.

"Yes, because reporters know everything."

"Not everything, but you try and save the world everyday, Spencer Smith. You arouse the masses with your mighty pen." Brendon waggled his eyebrows dramatically.

"Arouse?" Spencer flopped back down in his chair, covering his face and laughing. "Oh my god."

But Brendon was already standing next to Jon and saying, "Okay, okay. Truce? No more candy with your name, if you stop promising all the kids that I'll sing them their favorite Disney songs."

"You could just say no when they ask," Jon said and, wow, even Spencer could see how well that suggestion would go over.

"But, Jon. They give me the eyes. You know I can't resist the eyes." Brendon was clinging to Jon's hand desperately, looking at him and, fuck, a thirty-two year old doctor that looked about twenty-one in his sneakers and over-sized white lab coat.

"Are you talking about the evil devil spawn again?" Ryan asked, appearing in the doorway like magic, William practically attached to his hip. "Because their weepy eyes will drill a hole in your brain and suck out your entire life force. I swear."

William was nodding frantically even though he was just a huge, big fat liar because yesterday Spender had caught William in an earnest discussion about the Power Ranger's and their secret identities. Spencer was positive that William had been enjoying the conversation even more than the kid.

Lunch sort of became a tradition, after that. Spencer was spending a small fortune on food for three other people, sometimes Subway, sometimes that Thai place that Brendon seemed to love. After the second week, they tried to pawn money off on him but Spencer knew that Ryan couldn't really afford to eat out every day, and Brendon and William - well, guilt was a great motivator. He was spying on them, and even if he was sort of turning out to be a really lousy spy, he couldn't quite stomach the idea of them giving him money.

Guilt food. His life had been reduced to paying people off for his bad deeds in food. Greater good or not, Spencer couldn't quite get over the faint hint of betrayal that lurked just under the surface.

**

Ryan was sort of blood hound when it came to Spencer.

"So, want to tell me why you've suddenly become a permanent fixture in my place of employment?" Ryan asked, leaning back on Spencer's couch, boxes of Chinese take-out piled on the coffee table in front of them.

"Haven't seen you much since you got the new job. Figured this would be the way to, you know, actually see my best friend once in while."

And at least that was true. Ryan had spent five years living on the small fold-out couch in Spencer's closet sized spare bedroom, trying to sell lyrics, poems and some really random literary stories that sounded awesome but were pretty much over Spencer's metaphorical head.

He'd stayed until the day he'd come home, flopped down on Spencer's bed next to him and said, "I got accepted at nursing school. I start tomorrow."

"You hate blood," Spencer had said. "Plus, you're really just giving up?"

"No. I'm choosing." Ryan had said the words carefully, slowly, like somehow just saying the words were in and of itself a choice.

And maybe they had been. But that didn't really help Spencer much now.

"Right. Because five or six times a week just isn't enough for you? You need to see me more?"

Spencer just nodded his head dumbly. There were lines that he never wanted to cross with Ryan: lies and deceit and all the other things that they have never, ever been to each other. He was toeing that line dangerously and he wasn't quite sure how to keep from tumbling off onto the wrong side.

"Just can't enough of you, Ross. You know that."

After that, he couldn't really say no when Ryan told him that he'd been recruited to help with the quarterly inventory. It was, after all, a great way to spend time with his best friend.

Or so Ryan told him.

"You realize that I don't work here, right? That I have a job I'm actually supposed to be doing right now?" Spencer asked from behind the counter. He was counting pens and papers, and two storage cabinets full of bandages and swabs.

"Shut up and count," Ryan said to Spencer, walking back towards the examination rooms.

He came walking back a few minutes later with a small boy and his mother. "You can see William to pay your bill," Ryan said, smiling down at the boy. He high-fived the boy, and then whispered loud enough for the mother to hear, "Nice try on the kickflip, though." The boy laughed, but the mother's face was tight and uncomfortable at the counter.

"I'm so sorry, but I left my wallet at home," she said, leaning over the counter and trying to talk quietly to William. Spencer stopped counting and listened. "Do you think I could-?"

Brendon walked into the conversation, tackling the boy gently into a comical body check. "No problem! Just come back to pay when you get the chance." He smiled as he set the boy down on the ground. "Hey, no more skateboards for at least a day, okay?"

Spencer waited until the two had walked out door. "She had her purse slung over her shoulder."

"Yeah," Brendon said, walking around and hopping up on the counter next to William.

Spencer snorted. "Right. Hope you got her address."

Brendon reached over and flipped on the radio next to William's seat; he hummed along to the music. "Did we get her address, William?"

"I regret to inform you that we did not, Dr. Urie."

"Huh. Anyway, I'm starving. Anyone else want food?" Brendon hopped down, and was walking out the door and into the hallway when Spencer said:

"She's not going to come back and pay. You know that, right?"

Ryan and William stopped moving, looking between Spencer and Brendon.

Brendon didn't bother to turn around. "Maybe. Maybe not. Does it matter? If she doesn't come back, I'm out a tube of polysporin, a few bandages and ten minutes of my time. I think I can handle the loss."

Brendon stomped out, his purple sneakers echoing through the small office.

"Oh, yeah, Smith. You're just beyond awesome," William said. Ryan snorted and sent a scathing look in Spencer's direction.

Spencer had to agree that maybe, possibly, that could have gone better.

He still added a note to the ever growing list: bad business sense. Even though that wasn't necessarily a bad thing in this case, it was still worth noting.

**

Usually, Spencer prided himself on being unfailing - and at times, scathingly - polite. He wasn't much good at apologies and despite William saying, "the words you're looking for are I'm sorry I was a big, greedy, selfish jerk," he didn't really think there was anything to apologise for. Not really. But the next day, he may have purposely brought Brendon his favorite caramel flavored coffee as a small peace offering anyway.

"I completely forgive you, Spencer Smith. So completely," he said, sniffing his coffee appreciatively, his tongue peeking out to lick the small drops of coffee off the edge of the cup. "Seriously. Like, poof!, were you a jerk? I don't remember a thing."

Brendon leaned against the hallway wall, tapping his foot in a steady rhythm to their silence. They stared at each other for a minute before Brendon reached out and brushed a piece of hair off Spencer's forehead. One quick touch and he was gone, headed off to the back of the offices where Ryan was waving a clipboard frantically at him.

Later, when Brendon walked a girl and her mother out from the back room, Spencer was still standing there, tapping his fingers impatiently. The girl looked over toward him, Brendon hovering next to her, whispering in her ear. She was chewing a little on her bottom lip, and when she looked up, her mother nodded.

She ran over and flung herself against Spencer's legs, hugging him tightly.

"Dr. Urie says you look sort of like you needed a hug." Her words were muffled against the denim of his pants.

And Spencer, god, he was frozen in place, couldn't decide whether to push her away gently or to hug her back a little so instead, he smiled at her, and when she pulled back, her grin was huge and blindly for the second before she ran back to her mother.

Brendon was watching him from across the room, strangely still in the middle of the giggling girl and the talking mother; William's radio and, finally, the thump of Ryan's cowboy boots.

Spencer could feel the weight of Brendon's eyes long after they'd left.

**

Spencer wasn't sure how it happened really. One day, he was Ryan's friend that brought lunch and the next, William started asking him for dating advice and Brendon started texting him random messages at all hours of the day and night, just stupid quick messages that Spencer could never really understand because Brendon had the worst text speak of anyone he'd ever met. And then Jon was somehow inviting him to BBQs at his house and introducing him to Cassie, and Spencer realized that he was maybe in the middle of something much different than just writing a story.

That possibly complicated things more than he'd anticipated.

"Hot dogs," Jon said, "are the food of the gods." Brendon nodded wisely in agreement. Ryan and William were busy sitting at the corner of Jon's small yard, heads together, talking quietly.

Spencer really didn't want to know what was up with that.

"Hamburgers with Thousand Island dressing," he said instead. "Now that is food of the gods."

Brendon actually groaned. "Oh my god, like they make at In-n-Out."

"That's not Thousand Island dressing," William piped in from his huddled conversation with Ryan, "that's secret sauce." And Brendon busted out in laughter, his head falling against Spencer's shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah, secret sauce that looks sort of orange and has pickle pieces and tastes a lot like Thousand Island dressing," Brendon said, his words muffled against Spencer's shirt.

William looked vaguely affronted, but Ryan rested his hand softly on William's arm and he must have forgotten about secret sauce and hamburgers and Brendon's laughter because he turned back to Ryan, leaning closer and picking up their conversation.

Seriously did not want to know.

"We're not having hot dogs or hamburgers," Cassie said, walking out the small back door carrying a plate of chicken. "We're having chicken and you're going to eat it and love it."

Brendon started to say something, but Spencer clapped his hand over Brendon's mouth. "We're going to love it, Cassie. Totally." Jon wrapped an arm around Cassie's waist and gave Spencer a not-so-subtle thumbs up with his other hand.

"Yep, love it," Jon said, nuzzling his mouth against Cassie's neck. She giggled and nailed Jon in the stomach hard with an elbow.

"I saw that," she said.

Spencer was already completely in love with Cassie. She was awesome and feisty, and it was obvious that she was completely in love with Jon. It was also completely obvious that she could pretty much kick Jon's ass anytime.

Brendon's head was still resting on Spencer's shoulder and he didn't seem to be in any hurry to move. "Bren?" Spencer shrugged his shoulder and Brendon glared. "Food, yeah?"

"If you insist," he sighed and moved, but just enough to make grabby hands at the plate Cassie was holding. She handed it over with an eye roll. "I love you best, Cassie. I do. If I wasn't already saving myself for Jon, I'd totally run away with you and support you in the lap of luxury. For real."

Cassie wrinkled up her nose. "I've seen your apartment, Brendon. Lap of luxury, for sure. Besides," she nodded her head toward Spencer. "Find your own man."

Ryan choked and William almost fell over laughing. Spencer looked over and Brendon was going a little red in the ears. He felt his stomach clench tightly, uncomfortably. He stood up quickly and asked too loudly, "Bathroom?"

Jon looked a little sheepish as he pointed toward the house. "Last door on the left."

"Cassie," he could hear Brendon whine as he walked quickly through the door. "And people say I'm completely lacking in social correctness. Fuck."

Spencer didn't linger to hear Cassie's reply.

Later, he stayed on the other side of the table from Brendon while they ate; he absolutely didn't notice Brendon's slightly hurt look.

**

Spencer didn't often dream anymore. When he did it was usually flashes of colors, swirling lights and shifting crowds; there was always a rhythm to his dreams, a silent and steady drumming that would always crash with a loud crescendo. That night, though, he dreamed about dark hair and long fingers; green shoes and blinking lights; grinning kisses and the taste of laughter.

Over and over the dream repeated, more vivid and more real every time, and the soft focus of the dream narrowed until it was Brendon and Spencer, all warmth and bare, sweat-slick skin.

He woke up in the morning with his body sleep happy and comfortable.

When he got to his office, he pulled out the research notebook that he'd started that first day he took lunch to Brendon's office. All his his notes were scribbled inside, messy scrawls and weird shorthand only he could read. He had names of patients and little bits and pieces of medical conditions he'd overheard in the office. William's name was circled and Jon's name was underlined twice. It'd been a good start, but somewhere along the way the actual facts had started to give way to hates Little Mermaid songs most and doesn't actually let kids win at thumb wars, he just sucks and knows a million knock knock jokes and nice ass for jeans.

His phone beeped with a text message and Brendon's name flashed across the screen.

we miss u spncr smth

Spencer rubbed his finger against the screen of his phone, all cold, impersonal plastic where Spencer could still imagine the heat from Brendon's skin. He was pretty sure he wasn't ready to face Brendon quite yet.

at work doing work things sorry

It took a while for Brendon to respond, probably walking the hallways between patients. Spencer amused himself with a rousing game of Solitaire.

makes us sad

That absolutely didn't make Spencer smile even a little. But when his phone rang a few minutes later, he was surprised to hear Brendon's voice on the other end.

"Lunch is not the same without you here," Brendon said, before Spencer could even get out a hello.

"Brendon, it's not like I'm there every day." Spencer picked up some papers and moved the piles across his desk. It was always a good choice to look busy.

"But you're not here today and that's what matters."

And, okay, the phone wasn't too bad. He could hear Brendon's voice and pretend that he couldn't still feel Brendon's hands sliding across his body.

"What's so special about today?" Spencer asked. Leaning back and closing his eyes, letting Brendon's voice soak through the ear piece.

"It's Monday. That's reason enough." Spencer could hear the dinging of Brendon's small little microwave in his office. "I'm eating a frozen burrito without you, Spencer. They always taste better when you're here." He sighed sadly.

"Yeah, except we've never eaten frozen burritos together." Spencer shuffled around in his chair, getting more comfortable. This wasn't such a bad way to spend his lunch. Even if he didn't actually have any food in front of himself.

"True. But you make everything better." Brendon whispered the words into the phone, like this was some great secret he was imparting. "Besides, Ryan and William are making faces at each other. It's unusually weird."

And that made Spencer burst out in laughter. "No! Something weird happening in your office? I don't believe it."

"Oh, fuck you," Brendon said, but Spencer could actually hear his grin.

For a couple of minutes, Spencer sat quietly, listening to Brendon chew his food (loudly) and talk randomly about the music on his radio and the baby that threw up all Ryan this morning and the UNLV basketball team that had just gotten their collective asses kicked.

"I've been lying to you," Spencer wanted to say so badly that it was a physical ache, but the words lodged in his throat, and came out sounding exactly like:

"Maria Hernandez's son got moved out of the PICU today. He's going to be okay." Spencer picked up the phone message he'd received earlier from Maria. Good news.

"He was sick? I'm so sorry," Brendon said, sounding concerned, as if he could have actually known the name Maria Hernandez. "I know a few people at the hospital, I could-."

"No, he's good. I mean, he's better now. It's just, I know his mom. From work." Spencer stumbled over his words, feeling the lie hang in the air between them.

He managed to stay away from Brendon's office until late that afternoon.

**

Spencer walked in through the office doors as Ryan rushed out laughing. William was right behind him. "Spencer! There's a band!"

"There is?" He looked around doubtfully.

"A band downtown. So, I don't need a ride tonight. Sorry," Ryan was saying, holding onto William's sleeve and tugging him along. "Or wait, I drove my own car this morning. Why are you here?"

"Brendon." Spencer shrugged and pointedly ignored Ryan's look. "He here?"

Ryan nodded. "In his office," he said. "You want me to stay?"

And, wow, if there was one thing Spencer didn't want was for Ryan to stay, to see the complete awkwardness and weirdness that was wracking Spencer's entire body. It was a kiss, Spencer had been telling himself, just a few kisses in a dream, but still, it had been enough that Spencer had spent the entire day imagining the feel of Brendon's body, the touch of his hand, the taste of his lips.

"Go. Have fun," Spencer said instead, and Ryan looked doubtful for a moment, but William shoved him along with his hips.

Spencer found Brendon in his office, bent over his desk, his hair sticking up even more than usual. He looked up and smiled blindingly at Spencer.

"Spencer! Did you bring me food?" He looked so stupidly hopeful that Spencer hesitated for a few seconds before sadly shaking his head.

"But we can order some? Maybe?"

Brendon waved the offer away. "Later maybe. What's up?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that? I'm here, done with work for the day, and you...you're surrounded by work."

"Buried in work, Spencer Smith. Buried and drowning and that's a painful death, let me assure you." He cracked his neck loudly and Spencer winced in sympathy.

Spencer sat down on the corner of Brendon's desk and reached out, running his fingers softly through the hair hanging down on Brendon's forehead. Spencer could see the tension bracketing his eyes.

"Do you realize how lousy I am with accounting? So lousy," Brendon whined, tossing his pencil aside, and leaning into Spencer's touch. Spencer wiggled around on the desk until he could look over Brendon's shoulder: piles of receipts, a stack of log books, and on the computer screen, a long, neat row of numbers in an accounting log.

It was Spencer's entire article sitting in front of him in neat little columns.

Spencer turned quickly back around, clenching his hands into tight fists.

"I don't suppose you're any good with-," Brendon started to ask, nodding his head toward his ledger. Spencer backed away, sitting down hard in the chair so he couldn't see the papers, or the numbers, or that slightly crazed look in Brendon's eyes.

"Lousy!" And his voice sounded squeaky even to his own ears. "Really lousy with numbers. Can't even balance my own checkbook."

Brendon sighed and rubbed his fingers through his head, massaging a little at his temple. He turned back to the computer screen and pressed a few buttons.

"Oh, fuck. I'm so tired. Did I maybe add this up wrong? Because that can't possibly be right, can it?" Brendon turned the screen toward Spencer, ignoring Spencer's frantic, "Brendon, no, I can't," like he didn't even hear. But it was too late and the screen was already facing Spencer, and the first thing he noticed, without even meaning to notice anything at all was:

"Oh, fuck."

"Yeah. That's what I thought." Brendon and Spencer stared at the number in stunned silence, and, wow, it was a big number, way bigger than it should be. And normally that wouldn't actually be a problem, except in this case, the number was negative.

"How in the hell are you even still in business?" Spencer asked, and maybe that wasn't the most polite way to phrase the question, but it was a good question. The number was really big and really negative.

"No salary. Or not much of one. Just what the city pays me as a subsidy salary." Brendon dropped his head down onto his desk, too tired, Spencer thought, to even beat it against the wood. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"But," Spencer started, where's all the money? But it was a dumb question because even though Spencer was apparently really, exceptionally dumb sometimes, even he could figure out the answer. "Do any of your patients pay?"

"Some of them, sure." Brendon said, not even lifting his head up from the desk. "Just not enough. Obviously."

The decision was easier to make than it probably should have been. "Move," Spencer said, and Brendon looked at him like he was absolutely insane, and maybe he was, because he was saying, "This I maybe can help you with. So, move," as he pushed Brendon over and slid behind the computer and keyed open Word.

"Have you ever heard of grants?"

"Grants are for charities. I'm not a charity." Brendon watched Spencer warily.

"You really kind of are," Spencer said. "But anyway, grants aren't always just for charities. I wrote an article a few years ago about charitable trusts." It'd been five years ago, actually, and it'd also been some of the craziest days of his entire life.

He addressed his document to Clandestine Trust, ATTN: Pete Wentz.

**

Objectivity was supposed to be everything to a reporter, the ability to step back and look at a story with a fair and just eye. As soon as the story became personal, the story stopped being journalism and became editorial. That wasn't a bad thing, it just wasn't Spencer's thing. Spencer had always loved the purity in a purely objective account, so emotionally draining, so transparently factual that people couldn't help but feel compelled to move, act, change.

But now, Spencer had moved past objective and well into so-fucking-involved long ago.

Brendon had his arms wrapped around a girl, her feet standing on his lime green sneakers. They were dancing grandly around the waiting room to the thrumming beat of an old time Fall Out Boy tune.

Spencer wasn't sure who as giggling louder: Brendon or the girl.

There wasn't a whole lot of room in the waiting room, just a dozen feet in either direction. Brendon's sweeping dance was taking the pair from edge to edge, Brendon swinging her up and around just before they'd ram into a wall or couch. Spencer hugged the sidelines and made his way over to where a woman was watching them from against William's counter.

"Hey, Spence," William said, leaning against the counter, talking softly to the woman. "This is Vicky."

Vicky held out her hand and Spence shook it quickly. "Spencer," he said. He stared back into the middle of the waiting room where Brendon had grabbed up a pen and stuck it between his teeth like a rose. He was dipping the girl low to the ground, barely able to hold up her through the laughter.

"Well, this is new," he said to no one in particular.

"Not so much," William said and Spencer looked over questioningly. "What? It's not." William shrugged and sat back down, quickly picking up the phone when it rang.

"My daughter, Claire," Vicky said quietly, nodding toward the girl in Brendon's arms. "She turned ten yesterday."

"Happy Birthday?" Spencer said automatically. He was still having a hard time looking away from Brendon and the girl.

Dancing. Seriously.

"He said he'd always dance with her on her birthday." Vicky was smiling softly as she watched. "We didn't really think that she'd..., well anyways, ten's a good age, don't you think?" She turned toward Spencer and her smile was almost blinding. "But I'm thinking the rest are going to be even better."

And Spencer usually wasn't that stupid. "I think you might be right. About birthdays getting better every year." He reached out and touched her arm softly. "Definitely better."

"He saved her life. He saved her life and then he promised her dances on all her birthdays, even though everyone else said that she'd never even see eight. And now she's ten and she's dancing and she's all better."

Vicky squeezed his hand once, twice, and then let him go with a laugh. "Dr. Urie, you have to share my daughter with me! I want a turn," she called, running onto the waiting room dancing floor and wrapping her daughter up in hug between herself and Brendon.

Spencer's knees were weak and he gripped the counter too tightly, forcing his hands to stop shaking. He kept watching the three on the dance floor, twirling and spinning, Brendon's lime green sneakers a blur of bright color against the stark, ugly brown carpet.

"I think you need to turn up the music," Spencer whispered to William. "Fall Out Boy always sounds better at full blast."

William agreed.

**

"Spencer," Brendon's voice was painfully loud through the speaker of his cellphone. "You have to come save me. I have bookcases to put together, but they're devious. I think they're trying to kill me."

"B'den?" Spencer pried his eyes open and tried to look through the early morning fuzziness to see his alarm clock. Early, way too early. He was getting too old for all nighters. "Too early. You dead?" His face was still mostly mashed into his pillow.

"Okay, first, if I was dead I wouldn't be calling you. Second, it's nine a.m., ass. It's not that early."

Spencer sighed, wiggling down enough to wrap himself more comfortably up in the blankets. All night working on some crap article for Gerard and now he wasn't even going to get to sleep in.

"Bookcases?" He managed to ask. Because, okay, maybe he could do bookcases. Maybe.

"Bookcases," Brendon nodded. Spencer contemplated for a moment the level of crazy his life had reached when he could actually hear someone nod.

"You have to do this now?"

"Well, yeah. Now. Today. Whatever." Spencer could hear something rustle on Brendon's end of the phone. Cardboard maybe or, no, there was the very distinctive sound of bubble wrap popping, once, twice, three times in quick succession.

"You're totally popping the bubble wrap, aren't you?" Spencer tried to beat down the smile but he wasn't having too much luck.

Bubble wrap. His life was sort of reaching new lows. Although, the power of bubble wrap was great so maybe it wasn't the weirdest thing to find slightly endearing.

"Spencer," Brendon whined, and, okay, that actually wasn't endearing. "Spence, it's my one day off. Come over and put bookcases together with me and I'll buy us pizza. Okay, actually I'll bake us pizza, but it'll be totally awesome."

"Give me your address," Spencer said, already pushing himself out of bed. He was already feeling a little more awake than just a few minutes ago.

He showed up at Brendon's apartment armed with glue, a hammer and the electric screwdriver that his father had given him when he'd graduated from college. He was absolutely brimming with good intentions.

Twelve hours later, he was on Brendon's couch, Brendon draped half in his lap, both of them sweaty and tired, and Spencer feeling happier than he'd felt in months.

"I'd forgotten," Spencer said, breathing hard and poking Brendon hard in the stomach, "how awesome Guitar Hero is."

Brendon laughed and rolled so his head was in Spencer's lap. "Amazingly awesome, I know. Guitar Hero got me through college, Spencer. It's a classic."

All of Spencer's good intentions had gone right out the window the moment Spencer had seen the old Guitar Hero guitar sitting against the edge of Brendon's TV. You couldn't even buy the things on eBay anymore and the newer knock-off versions had never been as good. He'd missed playing.

He hadn't missed getting his ass kicked.

"Fuck yeah," Spencer said.

An inch of skin was flashing between Brendon's pants and shirt, just a slice of white, a trail of hair in the middle leading down, and Spencer couldn't pull his eyes away; didn't want to look away and have Brendon shift and move enough that his shirt rode down and the tease disappeared. It probably served Spencer right, punishment for all all his sins, because he couldn't do anything about it, absolutely not, because he had a copy of the paperwork he'd submitted to the city for his subsidized salary sitting on his desk and a stack of papers digging into Brendon's medical career sitting on his kitchen counter.

Spencer closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the sofa cushions. He kept his fingers in Brendon's hair, tugging and pulling and moving softly through the sweaty strands, and Brendon was practically purring beneath his fingers, all soft, humming happiness. Spencer couldn't imagine pulling away and losing the contact.

Fuck, he wanted to say out loud. Brendon, he wanted to whisper into the room. But he didn't and pretty soon Brendon's soft purrs gave way to a really, horribly nasal snore, and Spencer drifted off listening to the hushed cadence of his own guilt.

**

"Do I have to kick your ass?" Ryan demanded when Spencer's opened the door the next night. "Fuck, Spence. What the hell?"

Spencer really, really wanted to slam the door in Ryan's face. He managed to keep his hand still and steady on the doorknob. "No," he said instead.

"What the fuck ever," Ryan said, shoving past Spencer and slamming the door behind him. "So, when Brendon came into work grinning like an idiot today, that didn't have anything to do with you, right?"

"No," Spencer said because he was an adult and he doesn't make it a habit of kissing and telling. Even though there'd been no kissing or groping; there'd just been Brendon snoring away on Spencer's thigh and Spencer waking up with a neck spasm and a kinked back just as the sun started to rise up over the dessert.

"Right," Ryan said in that voice that suggested he totally knew Spencer was probably lying. "And the fact that Brendon was singing, I slept with Spencer Smith last night, was pure coincidence, right?"

"He...what?" Spencer sat straight up on his couch and glared at Ryan. "We did not sleep together."

Ryan stared blankly at him from across the room. "Not how you're thinking we did, at least. We fell asleep on Brendon's couch. I mean, okay, so we actually slept together, as in sleeping at the same time in the general vicinity of each other. But not-." Spencer waved his hand around.

"Not as in fucking." Ryan smirked at him.

"No," Spencer said quietly because maybe he was lying to Brendon (sort of) and lying to Ryan (a lot) but he wouldn't, couldn't, lie about this. It was another line between them.

"Why didn't you?" Ryan settled heavily next to Spencer on the couch. He sat closer than usual, leaning into Spencer, all legs and pointy elbows. It made Spencer smile a little.

Spencer didn't quite know how to answer because, seriously, there were too many reasons to actually count. Just. He was Spencer, and Brendon was Brendon, and there was Ryan and Jon and William, and there was the paper, and the printed research pages with Brendon's name all over them

There were lies and betrayal.

And if nothing else, he liked Brendon, more than he should given the circumstances, and maybe if there was no more touching or days playing Guitar Hero or inappropriate dreams, they could come out of this as friends. Somehow the betrayal would somehow be less that way. It wouldn't be perfect, but it'd still be something.

Spencer was starting to think that having some small piece of Brendon was better than having no piece of Brendon.

"Maybe you should tell him." Ryan said softly, right up against his ear. His voice wasn't flat like usual; he sounded sad, tired, hurting. Spencer looked carefully at him.

"Tell him what?" Spencer said the words slowly.

"That you're writing an article. That you thought - or think? - that he's a big part of the problem with the medical system." And for all the quietness in Ryan's words, there was something else there as well. Accusation maybe; possibly just disappointment.

"How'd you know?" Spencer asked, and Ryan looked surprised that Spencer had admitted anything so easily.

"Papers on your counter," he said, nodding toward the kitchen. "And there were some notes in your car, in the front seat. Not much to go on really, but it seemed like it might be a good guess."

Nodding his head, Spencer leaned over and rested his elbows on his knees. He felt so tired.

Ryan ran his hand down Spencer's back once and then stood up. "You need to tell him. I know you, Spence, you're going to regret this," Ryan said. He walked to the door, stopped with his hand wrapped around the doorknob. "He's not...He's a good doctor, you know. Not one of the bad ones."

Spencer stared at his bare feet. He didn't look up until long after he heard the quiet latch of the door echo through the room.

**

After that, Spencer stayed away from the office for a few days. He threw himself into finishing his other assignments and then pulled up the pages and pages of research on Brendon's office. He'd applied for a business license two years ago, enrolled in the city subsidy program six months later; he'd faithfully turned in the very basic accounting form the city required on revenue and patient numbers every quarter. He'd listed Ryan and William's salaries, both a bit lower than employees of other similar medical offices. Beyond the basic subsidy amount the city paid, he'd not declared his own salary.

Spencer had a list of some of the patients that Brendon had seen in the last year. They'd been tracked down during a city wide survey for the health care program a few months ago, and what little Spencer could get them to say about Brendon was all glowing. Mostly, my kids loved him and he's the only doctor we go to now and from one girl that had to translate for mother: he has awesome shoes.

It painted a decent picture of Brendon's office, but wasn't much help objectively.

He got stuck working late in the office, delving headfirst into the basic background checks he'd hired out on Brendon and William. He was long past the desperate need to find something.

After all, there was nothing to find; there never had been. He'd lied to his oldest friend for nothing; he'd lied to people he cared about for nothing.

He was so fucked.

"You look like you could use some coffee." A hand reached over the front of his low-slung cubicle wall holding a tray of four cups of Starbucks. The teasing smell of coffee was so awesome Spencer groaned.

"Your awesomeness can not be verbally rendered," he said mindlessly, groping blindly for the coffee.

"You are such a coffee slut," Brendon said, his face hovering over the top of the computer monitor. Spencer reached over and slapped his mouse button, taking a deep, stuttering breath when the screen switched over to the newspaper's homepage.

"What are you doing here?" Spencer took a small sip from the cup, groaning again when the coffee swept across his tongue. "Not that I don't appreciate the coffee and all."

Brendon walked around and flopped down in the spare chair next to Spencer's desk. He looked tired, eyes red and bloodshot, dark bruising just underneath. Spencer reached out and touched Brendon's arm; he got a small smile, so much less than usual, in return.

"Ryan said you were having to work late. I figured," he picked up one of other coffee cups and took his own sip, "that you might like some company."

"Bren-," Spencer started, but Brendon held up his hand and said quickly, "I'll just sit here. Be perfectly quiet. Really, Spence. Just do your work."

Something in Brendon's voice stopped Spencer cold. There was a desperation there, plain and clear and right there for the world - or at least, for Spencer - to see. Brendon was already leaning back in the chair, eyes closed, his mouth turned down in the closest thing Spencer had ever seen to a frown. He was breathing too slow, too even: all forced casualness.

Spencer squeezed Brendon's arm once and then nodded. "Yeah, okay. Company would be good," he said and saw Brendon's lips quirk up just a little, the barest hint of a not-frown.

He pulled up some random story that he'd started months ago and ditched because it never seemed to go anywhere interesting. It was still crappy and worthless, and pretty much pointless as well, but Spencer typed a few random sentences here and there, and when he noticed Brendon's shoulders loosening, drooping down, he kept on typing.

Now is the time all good men and see spot run and 'twas the night before Christmas and—

He just let random words flow out and pretty soon he ran out of well known phrases and started with: lime green sneakers with blinking lights; a girl's smile and a mother's laugh; the look on his face as he talked about anti-oxidants and the latest rock music; Disney songs in the waiting room and dancing in the halls. Spencer wrote about hope and someone that cared enough for two people, and how a system could be failing - horribly, painfully, tragically - but that there were still people keeping things working and making the best out of some of the very worst.

And when he was done, he had pages and pages, twice as many pages as all his other research combined. It was aimless, mindless babble, but it was real, and probably the best thing Spencer had ever written. He could see vividly every detail, could recognize Brendon in the shape of every word, was almost blinded by the vivid color swirling and twirling in the story, turning life and the system and everything he thought he knew upside down.

It was also worthless and completely not publishable. His finger hovered over the delete button, but he could hear Ryan, clear and obnoxious from his days before he grew up and lost that desperation to share himself through his words: inspiration should never be censored.

Spencer saved the document instead. He titled it vertigo.

Brendon shook himself awake four hours after he fell asleep. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. Spencer," he said, rubbing at his neck. "Was I excellent company?" He tried for a smile but it fell short.

Spencer watched him, pushing over the last half-cup of cold Starbucks. Brendon grabbed it up and swallowed it down in two gulps. He stood up and held out a hand to pull Spencer up.

They walked out of the newsroom in silence, shoulders brushing occasionally, Brendon's heat soaking deep into Spencer's skin. The silence between them felt wrong, bone deep, and Spencer wanted to ask, wanted to pry and demand and say something witty and funny to put the smile back on Brendon's face. Instead, he let his fingers glide once, twice, against the back of Brendon's hand; in the elevator, he shuffled closer, taking up as much space as he could, until he felt Brendon start to lean toward him, just a little, skin hungry and wanting.

Spencer wasn't sure whether he was talking about himself or Brendon anymore.

When they hit the street, Brendon grabbed hold of his arm and held him in place. He closed his eyes and stepped closer, one step, and breathed in deep, like maybe he was breathing in Spencer.

"Bren?" Spencer asked, holding perfectly still.

"It was a really bad day," Brendon's voice was so quiet, Spencer had to lean closer to catch the last of his words, "God, Spence, so fucking bad. One of my boys, he-." Brendon couldn't get the words out.

And Spencer had no idea what to say so he reached out and reeled Brendon in, wrapping him up in hug and holding on tight, breathing soft and easy for them both.

Brendon pulled away finally and said, "Thanks." He didn't smile, but maybe there wasn't quite as much misery etched into the lines of his face. Spencer felt his breath catch in his chest when Brendon leaned forward and brushed their lips softly together. And, fuck, Spencer wanted, so much, could taste the want on his lips, in the touch of Brendon's mouth, and it was like the world flipping neatly over, just a quick spin, everything Spencer wanted and everything that he could stand to lose in one small kiss.

Spencer backed away and whispered raggedly, "Brendon-."

"Shhh," Brendon whispered. He held a finger up to Spencer's lips, pressing softly. "Thanks for being you, Spencer Smith." Brendon stepped away and smiled; it was small, barely a smile at all, but it was real.

The world was still tilting dangerously as Spencer watched Brendon walk away.

**

The thing about Brendon was that he didn't necessarily look like a doctor; in fact, he didn't look much different from his patients, older sure, but not by much. In the office, he mostly stuck with simple khaki's and plain, white button down shirts. It was vastly un-Brendon-like in a way that Spencer found vaguely disturbing. But he always wore The Shoes, as Spencer had pretty much come to think of them: lime green or purple or red, some with lights and some with glitter and one disturbing pair with goofy pom-poms on the laces.

Except, Brendon left the office and the button down was still there, it was just lavender now, and the pants were maybe a little tighter, and there was definitely a little more gel in his hair. It was still the same Brendon, only now it was louder and more and just Brendon.

Spencer was having a hard time not staring at the curve of Brendon's neck, where the lavender of his shirt starkly met the dark brown of his hair.

Brendon stood talking to the bartender, pressed in tight against the counter, surrounded by beautiful people that didn't actually look so beautiful standing next to him. The bartender grinned at him, all big smiles and glowing white teeth, and with a t-shirt about three sizes too small. Brendon was smiling back, but he shrugged and shook his head when the bartender's grin turned hopeful.

Instead, he walked back over and pulled up the chair at their table, sliding himself up against Spencer, close enough that Spencer could smell the tang of his aftershave and the warmth of his sweat.

Jon and Cassie were whispering, heads bent close together across the room, and Spencer could see Ryan, a flashing piece of cowboy flair next William on the dance floor. They were sliding and moving, small, sharp movements around each other, Ryan's hand on William's hip easily.

Familiarly, Spencer realized.

"Spencer. Spencer," Brendon said into his ear, his soft breath sending shivers up Spencer's back. Brendon had spent the night sitting closer than usual. "I don't think they're actually sleeping together."

Spencer looked up, startled. "No?" Because, yeah, usually Ryan would have told him if they were, but Spencer wasn't sure if it was safe to assume anything about him and Ryan right now.

"Don't think so." Brendon took a long sip of his drink and Spencer found himself watching the long stretch of Brendon's neck, the slow swallow of the beer, the way his tongue traced along the edges of his glass, picking up the last tracks of alcohol. "Soon probably."

Brendon stared out at the dance floor and Spencer could have almost reached out and touched the longing in that look.

"Are you...I mean, are you in love with Ryan? Or William?" Spencer could barely stand to get the words out. There was no way he could have misread things that much.

"Oh my god, don't be so stupid. It's just," Brendon said, turning toward Spencer and reaching out, wrapping his fingers around Spencer's, "I want to be happy for them, you know. I really do. But," he looked nervously at Spencer, like he wasn't sure if he was supposed to say anything. "It could end up being awkward at work."

"Yeah." Spencer wished he could say something more encouraging, wanted to say it'll last forever or they're both adults, but Spencer remembered Ryan's last break-up and the four songs and two poems that he'd written about the whole affair.

Okay, to be fair, Spencer didn't remember the poems necessarily, but he did remember the thousand of phone calls and text messages that Ryan had sent to Spencer, wanting to share his pain and agony. Those had been dark, dark days of their friendship.

"You know, I can worry about it later. They're William and Ryan so it's not like I could actually tell them no. Whatever happens—well, I'll deal with it." Brendon wound their fingers tightly together and leaned in close, whispering, "But enough about them. Tell me about yourself, Spencer Smith. I want to know everything."

It's possible he may have giggled nervously. "Why?" He asked, because that seemed like a better option than actually telling Brendon everything.

"Why? Sharing is caring, Spencer. So share with me. Tell me your secrets."

Brendon was sliding in even closer, moving his chair over, his whole body pressed against Spencer, a scorching trail of heat that had him reaching for his drink and downing it in one long gulp.

"Secrets?" And somehow, Brendon had reduced Spencer to word repetition which he had always, always hated. But here he was, parroting back to Brendon stupid, meaningless words because all he could actually concentrate on was the callus he could feel on Brendon's middle finger as he rubbed it softly against Spencer's hand, and the way that Brendon was possibly the world's dorkiest flirt ever.

Spencer still wanted to push them both away from the table and wrap himself around Brendon.

"Secrets." Brendon whispered against the curve of Spencer's ear. The slow, hot touch of Brendon's mouth had Spencer hard and wanting.

"Hey! None of that in public," Jon interrupted, sliding into the seat across from them, Cassie settling in his lap.

Brendon just sent a pointed look toward Cassie's hand wrapped in Jon's hair. "We're married," Jon answered. "We've totally got a license to do this."

Cassie nodded her head, laughing when Brendon stuck his tongue out at her.

"No fair playing the marriage card. I call party foul," Brendon whined.

"Oh, party foul!" Cassie giggled into Jon's neck and Jon looked at them with a big grin.

"Seriously, guys, we need to leave now. If you want a ride," Jon said, lifting Cassie off his lap as he stood up. He wrapped an arm around her waist and nodded toward the exit.

Brendon pressed his forehead to Spencer's shoulder, laughing. "Oh my god, Jon thinks he's going to get lucky." Jon rolled his eyes and Brendon giggled softly in Spencer's ear, "Like she's not going to pass out as soon we get in the car."

Turned out Cassie wasn't the only one. Brendon had been bouncing for hours, all contained energy next to Spencer, reaching out and touching and pulling, his words slicing teasingly into Spencer with small flirts and harmless innuendo. Now in the back of Jon's car, he was crashed out hard, his mouth snuffling into Spencer's neck, hand up Spencer's shirt, thumb tracing idly along the lines of Spencer's skin.

When Jon pulled up in front of Spencer's condo, Brendon sleepily shuffled out first, reaching in and pulling Spencer out. He grinned at Jon and called a goodnight, wrapping his fingers through Spencer's and pulling then forward. Spencer got the door unlocked and Brendon pushed him inside and up against the door.

"You have to tell me now, Spencer," Brendon said, his thumbs rubbing softly against the skin of Spencer's wrists. "If you don't want this this."

He didn't wait for an answer, just leaned in and licked into Spencer's mouth, slow and careful and meticulous, like this was it, like there wasn't anything else except this. Spencer groaned into the kiss, opening his mouth and letting Brendon in, laying himself completely open in his desperation to reach out and touch. Brendon's hand's were winding into the fabric of Spencer's shirt, pulling him closer, closer, his hips pressing Spencer, hot and hard and fuck good, into the door behind him. Spencer manged to whisper wetly, "Bren, bedroom," before Brendon stole his words in a kiss.

Spencer was pushing Brendon backwards, guiding their shuffling steps with strong hands on his hips, both of them reaching for buttons and snaps, until they slammed into the wall of the bedroom, mostly naked and wanting. Brendon dropped to his knees and sucked biting kisses down Spencer's chest, onto his thighs and hips, Brendon's tongue trailing wipe stripes along his Spencer's cock, swallowing him down, way past slow and easy and nice, making Spencer lose himself in the now and please and yes.

When Spencer came, Brendon stumbled them back towards the bed, tumbling them over and climbing up, up, up, kissing Spencer, tasting them both in the kiss, and Brendon was winding his fingers through Spencer's and pulling their hands to his cock and whispering, "Spence, fuck, please," and Spencer tightened his grip, pulling, their sweat-slick skin sliding together. He held onto Brendon tightly, watching Brendon throw back his head and groan loud and long, coming in long streaks over them both.

Brendon tumbled heavily down, rolling quickly and wrapping himself around Spencer. Their fingers were still tightly wrapped together, slick and come covered, and not letting go. Spencer felt the slow rise and fall of Brendon's chest, the moment Brendon pressed a wet kiss to the center of Spencer's chest.

"Sleep now," he mumbled, and Spencer thought, it couldn't be that easy.

He fell asleep wrapped in the heavy weight of Brendon, all warmth and vibrant, sleepy perfection.

The next morning, Spencer stood, staring at the coffee pot. Sadly, it stared silently back, not moving, not dripping, just sitting there idly.

"You have to flip the switch," Brendon said into his neck. He wrapped one arm around Spencer's waist and reached his other arm around to flip on the coffee pot. "It works better that way." Spencer could feel the smile in his voice.

There were a thousand things Spencer could say right now, a hundred things that he absolutely had say to Brendon right now, but all he wanted to do was turn around and wrap his arms around Brendon, smell the sleep still clinging to Brendon's skin, feel the rough vibration of his early morning voice, listen to the scraping beat of Brendon's stubble across his cheek. The need won out, and he turned, and Brendon was already there, holding him tight and reeling Spencer in, kissing him with his sharp morning breath.

"Mmmm...," Brendon breathed into Spencer's mouth. "Spencer."

And Spencer gave up even trying to do anything except take the kiss and give it back, pressing closer and moving, until they were both panting and moaning and whispering, yesfuckyes, the sound echoing through the room. They came pressed against the counter, the coffee maker softly whirling beside them.

"Oh my god, kitchen sex, Spence. Before coffee even," Brendon was saying, pushing away and leaning back against the counter, eyes closed, and grinning stupidly.

Spencer laughed into Brendon's neck and tugged him back towards the bathroom. "Shower," he said, "and then coffee."

"And then more sex?" Brendon was running his fingers up and down along Spencer's spine as they walked. Spencer shivered.

"And then more sex," he said, pulling Brendon into the bathroom and shutting the door.

Later, Spencer stumbled out of the bedroom to find Brendon sitting at his kitchen counter, coffee cup in front of him, staring blankly at the papers scattered around him.

The kitchen counter, Spencer realized too late.

"Bren," Spencer said, dread sweeping over him in sickening waves. "Brendon, it's not-," what it looks like. But it actually was, Spencer knew. Most of his research notes left on the kitchen counter, some scribbled out story sections that he'd started and tossed aside; it couldn't be anything but absolutely damning.

It was exactly what it looked like.

Brendon was sitting perfectly still, his hand wrapped around his coffee mug, knuckles white from the pressure. He was all coiled up and pulled in, and when he finally looked up and met Spencer squarely in the eye there was almost nothing of Brendon in there. Blank and professional and, fuck what else had he expected, anger, and it was easily one of the worst things Spencer had ever seen.

"Wait, I can explain. Or not really explain but, there's a reason and just-," Spencer was saying, but Brendon was already up and moving quickly through the condo pulling on pants and shirt and shoes. He didn't look at Spencer, even as he carefully unlocked the front door.

"You should have told me," he said, and Spencer nodded even though Brendon was already gone.

"I know," he said to the empty room. "Fuck."

**

Spencer remembered lying on the couch next to Ryan, fingers beating out a rat-tat-a-tat on the cover of the book he was reading, listening to Ryan tell him about nursing school and the first day of his new job at this doctor's office in the crappy part of town.

"He's a freak, Spencer. Seriously. He was singing in the waiting room and there was a thumb war going on in the exam room. What the fuck?" Ryan said. "And the kids. They're everywhere, all the time, and they all have snot and coughs and they touch everything." Ryan was flopped back on Spencer's bed, eyes bloodshot and tired, his cheek sadly bare. "I'm exhausted."

The rhythm of Spencer's fingers changed to something harsh and fiercely annoyed. "It's not like it matters. You're a writer, not a nurse."

"I-," Ryan started, but Spencer interrupted. He'd held his tongue for the eighteen months of the nursing program, not said a word when Ryan's makeup had disappeared from his cheek and he started quoting Merck instead of Dave Eggers.

"You were going to storm the literary world remember? And now, what? You're going to be happy wiping snotty noses? Fuck, Ryan." Spencer tossed the book aside.

Spencer realized that maybe things between them had changed that day because Ryan had said, "There's different ways to change the world, Spence. I think this is it for me." He'd tossed Spencer his book, turned on the TV and moved out two months later. Things hadn't really changed, not so anyone else would notice, but Spencer remembered the words and he'd bet anything Ryan did also.

Now Ryan was back to drawing birds on his cheeks, wearing his favorite cowboy boots and tying his neckerchiefs on under his nurse's scrubs. He was more Ryan than he'd ever been, but with smiles for the kids, and for William and, even though Ryan would never admit it, sometimes for Brendon as well.

Spencer had nothing. No article, no big story that was going to fix the system like he hadn't been able to fix Ryan and the world that made him throw away his dreams. There was no impropriety at Brendon's office; no inflated budget or turning away patients; instead, there was smiles on the kids faces and someone who cared enough to do what needed to be done, doling out laughter and happiness as much as medical care.

There was Brendon. And Spencer's lies.

Spencer felt like he was fighting for every single breath he took, struggling to get the air to his lungs.

That afternoon, he showed up in Gerard's office with a file folder and two Starbucks coffees. He started the conversation with: "Okay, so I kind of fucked up."

Gerard just shrugged and grabbed at one of the coffee cups in Spencer's hands. Spencer pushed the other across the desk to him as well. Gerard eyed it warily.

"That bad, huh?" He asked, poking his finger against the cup. "Two cups bad."

"Afraid so," Spencer said, sitting down in the chair. There was a piece of paper splattered with bright red blood and three zombies eating handfuls of flesh from a body lying in a pool of entrails. "The publisher again, yeah?" Spence asked, pointing at the drawing.

"Hey, yeah. Makes the place brighter, doesn't it?" Gerard said happily, taking a sip of coffee. "Okay, so hit me with it."

Spencer tossed him the file folder and started talking, about Maria Hernandez and her son, and the city subsidies and the quality of care, and then about Brendon and William and Ryan, and somehow about Spencer himself, and he kept talking and talking and talking until there was nothing left to say except, "Oh, fuck, Gerard. I screwed up so bad."

Gerard had flipped once through the papers, but mostly he'd leaned forward over his desk, listening earnestly, his fingers drumming mindlessly against his coffee cup.

"So, you spent a month researching the crappy medical care in the poor areas and you actually only researched the one place that no one had complained about?"

"You did hear the part where I admitted that I fucked up, right?" Spencer leaned his head back over the edge of the chair. It was hard and uncomfortable, and it was like the universe knew that he shouldn't be rewarded with a soft seat for his ass.

"Yeah, I heard that part, thanks." Gerard picked up a pencil, twirled it mindlessly between around his fingers. "You're telling me all this why?"

"Because you're my boss?" Spencer said, rolling his eyes. "And because you may possibly be one of the few people still talking to me."

"Oh, yeah. Ross is going to kick your ass so hard." Gerard snickered.

"I take back every good thing I've ever said about you."

"Spencer." Gerard shook his head. "I don't know what you want me to do here. Tell you that you can save the world? Because I can do that. I've told you the story about why I became a journalist, right? One day, I-."

"Fuck, Gerard. You've told everyone that story about a dozen times. And you're probably the only person on the face of this entire planet that could actually make that story believable." Gerard grinned, white teeth flashing across the table at Spencer. Spencer sighed.

Gerard stuffed the papers back in the file folder and tossed it to Spencer. "There's a story there, Spence. You just have to find it."

"Those are your great words of wisdom? Wonderful." Spencer stood up, slapping the folder against his thigh.

"Hey, my wisdom is golden. Embrace the love, kid." Gerard waved Spencer away, picking up his pencil and adding in a few more blood splotches to his drawing. "Hey, Spencer? There's all different ways to save the world. Try thinking bigger."

Spencer spent the rest of the morning hitting the redial button on his phone, calling Brendon over and over, and getting kicked to voice mail every time. He was getting desperate. At noon, he stopped trying to pretend he was going to make it through the day and instead, showed up at Brendon's office. William smiled and waved him over, pointing behind the counter and down the hall to where Ryan was sitting on a stool, a little girl in front of him, make-up brush in her hand. She was drawing broad stripes of pink around Ryan's eyes.

"He - what?" Spencer waved his arm and William shrugged.

"He just gave her a shot so," William started and for once, Spencer thought he was starting to get it. "So he let her put makeup on him. Yeah. Got it," Spencer finished for him. A smile almost teasing at the corner of his mouth. "Brendon here?"

"Yeah, but I'm supposed to tell you that he's currently unavailable." William was frowning at him, worried more than angry, and Spencer wondered what else Brendon had told him. Probably nothing.

"Is Ryan also unavailable?"

William raised his eyes. "Is there a reason he would be?"

"Give me twenty minutes to talk to him and I'm pretty sure there will be." Spencer ran his fingers through his hair.

"Wow, okay, but could you do it somewhere else? Dr. Urie's sort of a cuddly freak, but he's also a mean little fucker when you piss him off." Spencer nodded, kept watching Ryan and the kid down the hall and, wow, he really was stupid. Beyond stupid, maybe, because in almost thirty years of friendship, he'd managed to spot every single piece of bull shit Ryan had ever thrown at him. Until now.

Devil spawn and evil children, his ass; that was the biggest lie Ryan had ever told in his entire life.

The girl was smearing some purple lines around the big pink splotches and Ryan was sitting there perfectly still and Spencer could hear him saying softly, "yeah, that's it, I bet it looks awesome," like he wasn't some freak that sort of obviously adored every kid that walked through that door.

Seriously, Spencer was so stupid there were no words to adequately describe that level of stupid.

Brendon walked around the corner into William's area, chewing on the tip of a pen, and reading a folder intently. "Hey, William, I need-," he stopped when he looked up and saw Spencer standing there, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot.

"Brendon," Spencer started and Brendon turned to William and said, "I need you to call around and see if you can track me down an ultrasound machine I can borrow. Or lease. Whatever."

"Yeah, no problem, Dr. Urie," William said, reaching out and taking the folder from his hands. He looked back and forth between Spencer and Brendon.

"Brendon, just. One minute, okay?" Spencer asked, but Brendon was already shaking his head, backing away.

"I've got patients, Spencer. Those people that I cheat and steal from while giving them bad medical care. You know them, right?" Brendon didn't look back when he walked out the door.

"Wow," William said. "Guess he really was sort of unavailable." And William must have figured out enough of the problem because he wasn't smiling anymore, wasn't even really looking at Spencer. Just filing the papers Brendon had brought in and digging out a phone book. "I'll let Ryan know you stopped by."

"Yeah, thanks," Spencer said as he left. For a long time, he stood out of sight in the parking lot , watching the building as the kids ran in and out, and staring at Jon as he stomped through Brendon's front door carrying a huge inflatable tooth and toothbrush.

Spencer hadn't lost a story, he'd lost an entire part of his life that he hadn't even known was his.

Ryan caught up with him just as he was getting in his car.

"You should have called me," he said, staring at Spencer sadly.

"Yeah, probably." Spencer stared at the pink and green around Ryan's eyes. "Brendon tell you what happened?" Spencer asked, even though he was fairly certain that Brendon wouldn't have put Ryan in the middle like that.

"Didn't really have to," Ryan said and Spencer nodded.

Yeah.

"Ryan," Spencer started, but Ryan was already moving in, wrapping him up in a quick, tight hug.

"You're sort of stupid, Spence. But you know I love you anyway, right?" Spencer nodded. Ryan just slapped him upside the head not entirely softly. "But, seriously, really sort of stupid."

**

It was two in the morning and his bedroom ceiling was swimming happily above him. There were stars blinking at him and they looked like fish, sort of, and he kept remembering Wynken, Blynken, and Nod and the fisherman three and the herring fish. And wow, he may have drunk more than he realized. Which might actually be excellent, because for the first time in days, he wasn't remembering the taste of Brendon's mouth or the rough stubble feel of his cheek or the slick touch of his hand.

It was the first time in days, that he wasn't consumed with the heavy weight of loss pressing down on his chest.

Unfortunately, he was pretty sure the tequila bottle was smiling at him. Maybe not smiling, necessarily, but grinning evilly. Mocking him even.

Spencer tossed the empty bottle off the side of the bed and rolled over, pressing his face into the pillow case. If he closed his eyes and breathed deep, he could imagine that he was able to still smell Brendon, right here in his bed, curling around him, his voice whisper soft across Spencer's skin.

When the door bell rang, Spencer was toeing that line between sleep and passed out. He managed to stumble out and into the living room, pulling open the door and leaning heavily against it for support.

"You look like shit," Brendon said from the doorway.

Spencer blinked and looked again. Brendon was still standing there.

"Can I come in?" Brendon asked and Spencer stepped away automatically, staring at Brendon, soaking in the sight of his rumpled clothes and the hair sticking straight up on the back of his head. He looked like he needed a hug.

"You look like you need a hug." Spencer was absolutely sure that somehow his mouth had gotten disconnected from his brain. Drunk or not.

"Yeah, probably," Brendon said, rubbing his hand tiredly through his hair, not looking like he thought it was weird for someone else to comment on the relative necessity of hugs. "Spencer, look, I—fuck. Okay, I had this all planned out, what I was going to say. Some crap about betrayal, and how you totally lied to me, and how Ryan will easily choose you over me if it comes to that, which would suck because Ryan's pretty much amazing at what he does. But you're really sort of amazing in general and," he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his pants, "I can't do this. I can't have you showing up at my office, and I can't pretend that this didn't matter. Fuck, Spencer, I thought-."

Brendon took a deep breath and stared right at Spencer.

"You thought what?" Spencer asked quietly, but the words still seemed to echo through the room.

"It doesn't matter what I thought because it wasn't true." Brendon shrugged his shoulders, his lips turned up a smile that was horrible in it's sarcasm.

"Maybe it was," Spencer cleared his throat, stepping closer and reaching out, almost touching. "Maybe what you thought was true."

Brendon stepped back.

"You're drunk, Spencer. And I'm not the one that has to fix this." Brendon said, opening the door. "This," he waved his hand toward Spencer, "isn't the way to fix things. Just so you know."

Later, just as the sun was breaking over the dessert horizon, the sky taking blues and oranges and mixing them up together, Spencer sat down at his computer and stared at the document opened on his screen. For the first time, he read out lout the words he'd written days ago:

lime green sneakers with blinking lights;

a girl's smile and a mother's laugh;

Disney songs in the waiting room and dancing in the halls;

making the very best out of some of the very worst.

There wasn't much to change, really. No hard facts to objectify, no statistics to quote, no interviews to reference. It was Brendon, in every word and every sentence, glowing and vibrant against the bleakest of backdrops.

He attached the story to an email, addressed it to Gerard and typed in:

A new kind of story to change the world. Here's to either thinking bigger or losing my job. You tell me which.

Gerard's reply came thirty minutes later. It was titled, My Beloved Padawan.

I just got so emo I fell apart. This is fucking awesome.

**

Vertigo, a feature article by Spencer Smith ran in the Sunday edition. Gerard sent him a case of Red Bull and a note that said, so not fired. William and Ryan and Jon all called and they made vaguely excited flapping noises and told him it was awesome. He waited all day but Brendon never called. Spencer wasn't sure why he thought that maybe, just maybe, the right article would also be the right way to fix things.

Monday he got to work and found the mail stacked haphazardly on the corner of his desk. Mostly junk and some random postcards and one large envelope addressed to Brendon Urie, MD c/o Spencer Smith, Las Vegas Tribune The note inside said: Welcome to the Clandestine Family Trust! and was signed by Pete Wentz. It wasn't hard to remember that night in Brendon's office, writing grant request after grant request, the feeling of Brendon pressed close against his side, sniffling into his neck, his hand wrapping around Spencer's arm, into the fabric of his shirt, and up into his hair.

It wasn't a night he was likely to forget.

Attached to the letter was a check. It was written for more than enough to change one small corner of the world.

And, okay, Brendon still wasn't talking to him, although that probably couldn't last that much longer. Spencer had shown up faithfully almost every single day, and had eaten lunch with Ryan and William, the three of them pretending that everything was normal; that Brendon's absence wasn't obvious, his silence painful. But on Friday, Brendon had nodded a little when Spencer walked into his office with sandwiches. It was hardly a nod at all, and there hadn't been an accompanying smile, but it was something.

It'd been the highlight of Spencer's week.

Spencer got that he had lost Brendon's trust; lost his right to Brendon's time and smiles and laughter, but today, Spencer didn't even give Brendon a chance to ignore him. This was too important. He bounded through the front door of Brendon's office, already yelling, "Brendon!" It wasn't like Brendon's office was known for it's silent professionalism. Yelling was allowed; sometimes even encouraged.

William stood behind his counter frowning in worry. "Spencer? Everything okay?" And Spencer realized that it was conceivably a little odd, worrisome probably, for Spencer to be the one yelling.

"Sorry! Sorry," Spencer said, flapping his arms. He turned around and a girl sat in the corner of the room with her mother. "Sorry." He waved at the girl. "Just great news. Where's Brendon?" William was looking at him oddly, shaking his head.

"Whatever," William shrugged. "Brendon's not here. He had an emergency at the hospital."

That stopped Spencer. "Wait, is he okay?" Spencer sagged in relief when William nodded. "Okay, good, yeah. Is he going to be -?" But William was already shrugging is shoulders.

"Sometime, yeah, but I have no idea when." William sat back down behind the counter. "You can wait for him, right?" He was looking nervously at Spencer, like he didn't know quite how much to say, "Because you should definitely wait."

Spencer was already shaking his head. "No, I'll just - This is Brendon's," Spencer thrusted the envelope toward William. "It's something good for him. For all of you really."

William was already grabbing his arm and shoving the envelope back into his hands. "Spencer, just stay, okay? Brendon wanted to talk to you. Actually, he sort of told me to sit on you till he got back."

That stopped him. He wasn't sure what had happened between Friday and today, and the quick change made him more than a little nervous. But the last thing Spencer wanted to do was put anyone else in the middle of his fuck up and it was obvious that the middle is exactly where William was balancing.

"Okay, yeah. I'll wait?" He phrased it like a question but he was already walking over to one of the waiting room chairs and sitting down. He fingered the envelope in his hand nervously.

He watched as the mother in the corner walked over to talk quietly to William. "He got called to the hospital, Val. He's going to be so completely bummed that he missed you." William looked vaguely horrified at the idea.

"It's my birthday," the girl said suddenly from the chair next to Spencer. "I'm eight." She grinned at Spencer expectantly.

"Happy Birthday," he answered, and felt a moment of deja vu. He could feel a smile niggling at the corners of his mouth.

Her smile was huge and blinding and reminded Spencer so much of Brendon's grin that he could hardly look away. "I'm supposed to get a dance today. We drove all the way from Laughlin." She was shaking her head sadly.

"Dr. Urie's at the hospital," he said hesitantly. She didn't look like the fragile sort of kid, but he still wondered if he was about to be faced with tears.

"It happens," she shrugged. "Still sort of a bummer, though." She leaned back in the seat next to Spencer, her feet stuck out in front of her, tapping to some sort of hidden rhythm. Spencer could almost hear the beat in his head. It was a good, solid beat.

After a while, she turned and eyed him up and down. "Do you dance?" She asked, her eyes narrowed.

He stared, unblinking, at the girl for a minute, desperately trying to figure out what to say. No, didn't seem appropriate but yes seemed to be pretty much impossible as well. Dancing was Brendon's department, it was so not Spencer's.

"I can't wait much longer. We'll catch him later," the mother was saying to William at the counter, sounding a little sad and maybe a little bit desperate.

Spencer figured Laughlin was maybe a couple of hundred miles away and these people had driven to Vegas, traveled for hours, just because Brendon always danced on his kids' birthdays, and it was important enough to them that they came, and this time, Brendon wasn't here. Spencer could close his eyes and see the pain in Brendon's face when he'd realized he'd missed the moment, and the girl left disappointed and upset over her two minutes of twirling around in a crappy, beat-up doctor's office.

Such a small, stupid thing, but worth so much. Spencer was already up and almost at the door, and all he had to do was turn the knob, and he'd be outside and away and, later, he could talk to Brendon. Pass on the details about Pete Wentz, and the Clandestine Trust, and maybe if he was exceptionally lucky, try and become friends again.

He didn't turn the knob.

He stared at the poster behind the door, all swirling colors and crazy abstract art, thought of the insanity of Brendon's life, the spirals of insanity that defined Brendon's life. It wasn't something he could watch from the outside; he couldn't stand here and see the tilting world and the changing horizon without missing out on the ride.

Spinning around, he walked over to the girl and bowed low, hands spread out, smile splitting his face open. "May I have this dance?" He winked at her and whispered, quietly enough that neither William nor the woman could hear, "I know I'm not Dr. Urie, but I'm here and he's not, and I'm pretty sure he'd be bummed that you didn't get your birthday dance."

She giggled and stood up, flinging herself against him. Fearless.

"We require music, William!" Spencer said, in his very best Jeeves voice, but he knew it sucked, mostly because he was already laughing and swinging her up and away into a spin.

The music blasted on, louder than usual, and William and the mother were talking in rapid fire whispers. He didn't bother to try and pick up on their words, just grinned down at the girl and danced. They spun around and knocked into two chairs and tripped over their own feet and were both giggling manically as the music filtered through the speakers.

When the last beat of music faded, they were leaning against each other and gasping for breath.

"What's your name?" She asked, and her grin reminded him so much of Brendon's, all free and easy and real.

"Spencer. And if you want, Dr. Urie will probably be here before too long. He'll probably want you to save him a dance."

Her eyes lit up. "Oh, wow, Spencer!" She giggled, before pulling Spencer's head down and whispered, "Don't tell him, okay, but you're a better dancer. He always steps on my feet." Spencer grinned, stupidly happy over the comment, and stared down at his feet, wiggling his toes back and forth. She laughed and said, "But his shoes are way cooler."

And Spencer couldn't help it, he picked her up and swung her around one last time. "Yeah, you know, I'll totally work on that." He was positive he looked like a complete idiot but he didn't care. It felt awesome.

The girl pulled away, tumbling out of his arms and screaming, "Uncle Brendon!" He turned, shocked, to see Brendon standing in the doorway, staring at Spencer with a small smile. Just in time, he reached down to catch the girl as she jumped up into his arms. "I totally got to dance with Spencer!"

Brendon staggered backwards, pressing a laughing kiss into her hair. "Hey, I saw! Lucky you," he said, watching Spencer carefully over the top of her head.

She poked him in the stomach. "You were late and now I have to leave," she said accusingly. "Good thing you have awesome friends who are way better dancers than you."

Brendon gasped in mock outrage, his eyes never looking away from Spencer.

"Hey, we've got to go," the woman said, sliding in close and giving Brendon a quick hug. Their heads stayed pressed close for a second and Spencer could see the quiet conversation taking place. When they finally pulled away, she shot Spencer a curious look. Spencer felt himself blush.

Fuck.

"Hey, Uncle Brendon, you've got to bring Spencer over to see us," the girl said, reaching up and pulling Brendon down into a last big hug. "Mom and Dad keep talking about him." She skipped out the door.

Spencer only thought the world was tilting crazily before.

"Your sister?" Spencer finally asked, like that was the only thing on his mind. He didn't care much because, right then, he was mesmerized by the look in Brendon's eyes—something both familiar and new all at once.

"Sister-in-law actually," he said, looking strangely nervous. "They may have...heard a little bit about you."

"Yeah." Spencer took a step toward Brendon. He could feel every foot still between them.

"So, I liked your article." Brendon met him halfway across the room.

"I'm glad," Spencer said, "But that's not why I wrote it."

And finally, oh my god finally, Brendon laughed. It sounded like hope and possibility; it was the best sound Spencer had ever heard. "I know. That's sort of why I liked it. It was," he shook his head, his ears going a little red, "mostly all about you, and not so much about me."

"I think that maybe those are pretty much the same thing for me." Spencer looked away, didn't want to have to wait and watch and see if Brendon got what he was trying to not say, trying to not admit in any obvious way.

Instead of answering, Brendon grabbed his hand and tugged him back through the door, down the hall and into his office. He closed the door behind them and leaned against it, staring at Spencer intently.

"I'll hold your calls, Dr. Urie," William called from the hallway. Spencer could hear him laughing.

"You should dance more often," Brendon said, standing directly in front of him. He reached out and brushed his hand across Spencer's cheek.

Spencer shifted nervously. "I brought you a letter from Deycandence Trust. They-," he said but Brendon waved his words away.

"I already know. I talked to Pete Wentz last week."

Spencer nodded and stared down at the floor in sort of a perverse fascination, watching as the lights on Brendon's shoes blinked over and over every time he shifted.

"So, I don't know how to make you trust me again." The words were painful, but Spencer made himself look into Brendon's eyes; didn't let himself turn away.

Brendon grinned, a real, easy grin this time, and nodded his head. He inched closer and closer until their bodies were pressed tightly together, the space between them gone. "You just have to be yourself. That's all I need, Spence," Brendon whispered, his lips brushing softly against Spencer's. "Just you."

Spencer wrapped his ams around Brendon and for the first time, let himself sink into the moment, feeling the cadence of Brendon's breaths, the smooth slide of their bodies moving together, pressing in and closer, fitting in all the little places that Spencer had never fit before. Brendon laughed and stuck his hands up Spencer's shirt, softly rubbing his fingers against the skin at the small of Spencer's back.

"I have to go back to work," Brendon said, slicking his tongue across Spencer's lips, once, twice. With a loud sigh, Spencer dropped his head down to rest on Brendon's shoulder. Spencer could feel him grinning against his neck.

"Oh my god," Spencer moaned.

Brendon tugged Spencer's head down until their foreheads were just touching, until he couldn't see anything but Brendon and himself and the way they looked all tangled up together. "Spencer Smith, can I bake you a pizza tonight?" Brendon whispered.

And out of the corner of his eye, Spencer could see the blinking lights on Brendon's shoes flashing off and on, swirling a light show of colors up and around them. He smiled and nodded his head.

"Yeah, I'd like that."

**Author's Note:**

> Gerard's line, _I just got so emo I fell apart_ , is an actual quote from Gerard. If wikiquote can be trusted, that is. :)


End file.
